


Coping Mechanisms

by Eles



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 5+1 Things, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 06:51:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4253580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eles/pseuds/Eles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5+1 ways the Feanorians cope in a world where Amras burns at Losgar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coping Mechanisms

Maedhros uses war.

He throws himself into the thick of it, devising plans and schemes so late into the night that when he finally peels himself away from what the future could hold, his candles are little more than pools of wax and the sun is on the rise. He loses himself to the whims of a war he didn't start. He wins battle after battle, counts the losses as they are, impersonal, so that it cannot make the pain any worse than it already is. He bloodies his own hands and joins the battles himself. It's harder to remember the lives that have been lost to this foolish war when his own life is on the life. The bloodstains wash away with a bit of effort, and it's almost like starting over again. Then he's captured, and he hangs for so many days off the side of that awful cliff. So many days later he loses his cousin to the war as well, and then he's losing brothers left and right. Then he forgets completely and for the last time. He has more to worry about than his littlest brother who's already dead and gone.

 

* * *

 

Maglor uses his songs.

His sings until his splendid voice cracks and his fingers bleed, painting the strings of his harp red. Still he goes on until his voice breaks completely and the song is lost. His brothers ask him not to sing such songs anymore. They hold his hands, bandaged now, and beg him to stop. They tell him that they do not wish to lose another brother, let alone see a brother go mad. The words bring the realization that that is exactly what he is doing, driving himself over the edge of madness with the grief he's poured into his song. So he smiles, nods, and has the pleasure of seeing his brothers smile back. His sanity remains whole, at least for now. He never sings of his grief again, and he sings for the brothers that remain to him instead.

 

* * *

 

Celegorm uses the hunt.

The hunt is wild, reckless, and free. It is impossible to hold both the grief he brings with him and the heady, breathless feeling that comes with losing himself to the present. For that is what the hunt brings, this race through the forests of a strange new land, Huan at his side, spear in hand. He goes on foot, running down a trail of hoof-prints without leaving a mark himself, as graceful and silent as any hunting cat. His blood rushes through his veins, heartbeat singing so loudly in his ears that he is sure that the entire forest can hear it too. It races so fast it feels like it will burst with the love he bears for the hunt, the love he wanted so badly to give to his brother who burned. But he has given himself wholly to the hunt, to the now, and so that love is lost to the bloody kill at the end of the trail.

 

* * *

 

 Caranthir uses his rage.

He throws himself against the cold, unyielding walls of his room. He screams his grief and rage so that all the Valar across the sea can hear him suffering. His knuckles split, bones breaking on the stone. Blood paints the walls he threw himself against. He knows the whole keep can hear, but it is not enough. His brother is dead, and the pain in his hands is no longer enough to ground him. The rage in him surges forward and he is dashing himself against the walls once more. Time shifts, hours pass, maybe days, but he awakens curled up on the floor, hands clutched carefully to his chest. He is bloodied, bruised, and exhausted by his rage, as he should be. He can rest now, with the evidence of his grief echoing through the keep and painted on the walls. He will not need to fill the void left by his baby brother for a long while, maybe not ever again.

 

* * *

 

Curufin uses his work.

In his tireless quest to create perfection with his own hands, his grief ceases to exist. Nothing in the world matters except the heat of the forge and all it entails. Metal rings against metal, burns sting and sear, and beauty appears in the palm of his hand. He wants for nothing more than to work, and to work until his heart gives out so that he can die surrounded by the finest creations any being of this world will ever know. But as always, Celegorm leads him away by the hand, gently prying his fingers away from his tools. Celegorm brings him to bed and tucks him in. The night Curufin spends in bed is mostly sleepless, but he appreciates the thought. He knows that none of his brothers can truly understand him, how he needs the forge, how he needs to lose himself in what fire can create so he can forget what it has destroyed.

In the morning he finds Celegorm outside his door, exhausted from his self-appointed duty to fend off anyone that would disturb Curufin's sleep. Curufin shakes his head, brings Celegorm in, and puts him to bed. He looks over his handiwork with pride, then slips under the blankets beside his brother. He can almost pretend that they're children again, that they're home, that their family is whole as it once was. For a while he loses himself in the past instead of the forge, and then he falls back asleep.

 

* * *

 

Amras doesn't cope at all.

He doesn't need to, why would he? He hasn't lost anyone. His oldest brothers have everything in control, and he's happy to watch them rush about and listen as they chatter on and on about their war. He doesn't understand why they're so obsessed with it. He'd much rather be home, watching their mother work on her statues. Home is such a long way away, though, so he fills his days by climbing trees, racing horses, and exploring these new lands. It's all so lovely and beautiful, but his brothers spend their days inside. His brothers have always been rather strange. Amras supposes it comes from him being so much younger than them.

Sometimes he catches his older brothers watching him with sad eyes. He doesn't understand this either. He's still their brother, even if he is younger than all of them. They shouldn't be watching him like he's some little creature they're looking after for Mother. Eventually he comes to the conclusion that it is yet another strange quirk his brothers have picked up. He decides to be polite and pretend not to see them watching, then darts off into the woods to discuss the idea with his brother.

Amrod agrees. Their older brothers are the ones who are strange. There's absolutely nothing wrong with them.


End file.
